


World of Many Worlds

by Pervymonk



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abigail tries to have a semi-healthy life, Beverly Katz liiiiiiiiives, F/M, Fix It Fic, Wildly AU, and semi-healthy relationships with the people around her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pervymonk/pseuds/Pervymonk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything that can happens, happens, so can you ever really make the wrong choice? Abigail is alive, and breathing, and struggling the pain that comes with a second chance at life. A fix-it fic of ridiculous proportions. Wildly AU after the season two finale. Eventual Will/Abigail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

               

_O World of many worlds, O life of lives,_  
What centre hast thou? Where am I?  
O whither is it thy fierce onrush drives?  
Fight I, or drift; or stand; or fly?  
  
  
The loud machinery spins, points work in touch;  
Wheels whirl in systems, zone in zone.  
Myself having sometime moved with such,  
Would strike a centre of mine own.  
  
  
Lend hand, O Fate, for I am down, am lost!  
Fainting by violence of the Dance…  
Ah thanks, I stand - the floor is crossed,  
And I am where but few advance.  
  
  
I see men far below me where they swarm…  
(Haply above me - be it so!  
Does space to compass-points conform,  
And can we say a star stands high or low?)  
  
  
Not more complex the millions of the stars  
Than are the hearts of mortal brothers;  
As far remote as Neptune from small Mars  
Is one man's nature from another's.  
  
  
But all hold course unalterably fixed;  
They follow destinies foreplanned:  
I envy not these lives in their faith unmixed,  
I would not step with such a band.  
  
To be a meteor, fast, eccentric, lone,  
Lawless; in passage through all spheres,  
Warning the earth of wider ways unknown  
And rousing men with heavenly fears…  
  
  
This is the track reserved for my endeavour;  
Spanless the erring way I wend.  
Blackness of darkness is my meed for ever?  
And barren plunging without end?  
  
  
O glorious fear! Those other wandering souls  
High burning through that outer bourne  
Are lights unto themselves. Fair aureoles  
Self-radiated these are worn.  
  
  
And when in after times those stars return  
And strike once more earth's horizon,  
They gather many satellites astern,  
**For they are greater than this system's Sun.**

“O World of Many Worlds” by Wilfred Owen.

* * *

 

 

“You can make it all go away. Tilt your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

She’s falling through the darkness. Above her, she sees bright and blinding lights-dimly, she thinks they must be the fluorescent lights of Hannibal’s kitchen. She’s falling until she isn’t. Water splashes around her and she begins to sink. Only, as the lights begin to fade and red replaces them, she realizes she hasn’t fallen into a river of water.

She’s sinking through a river of blood, and it isn’t quiet. It roars with a cacophony of hellish misery.

She opens her mouth to scream only to have blood invade her mouth. She tastes copper, and death, and the last meal she had with her parents and the first meal she had with Hannibal. She tastes Alana’s screams as she pushes her through Hannibal’s window, tastes Beverly Katz’s first startled stare, tastes the love Will feels for her.

_Will…_

If she concentrates hard enough, she can hear his garbled sobs. It’s getting harder to breath-it hurts, and the pain is centered around her throat, trying to keep her blood inside her body. She can feel the warmth of an untrained hand pressing down upon her wound and desperate, distorted pleas. _Please, Abigail. Abigail, please. No, no, no, please. Abigail._

_Abigail._

She turns her body, and can see an inky, almost blood red darkness below her. It’s calling her name too. Wasn’t there supposed to be a light at the end of the tunnel? She supposes that’s meant for people better than her-people like Will, like Alana, and like Beverly.

People like Hannibal, and her father-and her-get that terrible, peaceful darkness. That blankness that envelopes like a mother’s embrace. That nothingness that comes with the ending of a life.

_Abigail!_

_Will,_ she thinks. _Save your breath. If anyone is a survivor, it should be you. Not me._

She reaches for that blankness, but finds that she has stopped sinking.

_Abigail!_

The fluorescent lights push their way through the darkness, parting the red sea like Moses. _I don’t deserve to live,_ she thinks. Isn’t that why she took Hannibal’s hand?

_Abigail!_ Will’s voice is fading, still calling her name. He can’t last much longer. She begins to swim, to kick her legs as hard as she can. She can vaguely see a hand reaching out for her.

She takes it, and becomes overwhelmed with a blinding light.

 

* * *

 

The sterility and brightness of the hospital will drive Abigail mad.

She knows she’s uncomfortable because she’s been so used to darkness and dampness. Hannibal hadn’t kept her locked up long in the grand scheme of things-maybe about a year, probably less-but she’d gotten used to the darkness of his cellar. The lights of the hospital feel as though they will blind her. She reaches up to touch the bandage covering her neck-the second one in recent memory-and swallows past the pain in her throat. She swings her legs over the bed and stands, pulling her IV stand with her.

She walks out into the hall, feet covered in those nonslip socks the hospital gives out like candy, and walks to the nurses’ station.

“You wondering about Mr. Graham again?” the charge nurse asks, though not unkindly. Abigail nods. “Hold on, sugar, let me call the doctor.” She waits patiently while the nurse calls the doctor. He shows up quickly, shooting her a pitying smile as he walks up. The nurse talks to the doctor as if Abigail wasn’t there, and the doctor turns to her.

“You’re anxious to see him?” he asks, and she nods.

“This is this second time he’s saved my life,” she says quietly. “I want to thank him.” The doctor nods.

“He is well enough to see visitors, though not for any long length of time,” the doctor says. “Come with me.” She silently follows him down the bright, sterile halls-her head pounds, and it feels like she will never get used to light again.

“Abigail, right?” the doctor’s voice cuts through her splitting headache. “Abigail Hobbs?” She nods.

“Unfortunately,” she quips, praying he doesn’t mention her storied and bloody past.

“Mr. Graham’s been saying your name when he drifts in and out of consciousness, almost like a prayer,” the doctor says, surprising her. “I think he’ll be happy to see you.”

“I hope so,” she says. They stop in front of a room, and she can already hear voices drifting out from it. She hears a voice she doesn’t recognize and, very faintly, Will’s answering responses.

“Damn it,” the doctor mutters. “He can’t have many visitors.” He pushes the door open and Abigail winces from the bright sunlight that pours in from Will’s hospital window. When she vision clears, a dark haired man with a cane walks out.

“Well, well-Abigail Hobbs,” he says. “Quiet resilient, aren’t you?”

“Dr. Chilton,” she says, edging away from him to look into Will’s room. She sees the doctor give him a sip of water from a cup with a straw. “How’s Will?”

“Oh, I do believe our mutual friend will live, despite Hannibal’s best efforts,” he says. “Can’t say if he’ll survive what you’ll do to him, though.” Her eyes cut sharply over to him, and his smirk floods her vision.

“I’m just here to thank him,” she says. She looks back into the room, the doctor motioning her inside. “And to apologize.”

“I don’t think things will ever be that simple between you,” Chilton says. As she steps in, he grabs her arm and leans into whisper, “At least wait until he’s out of the hospital _before_ you cut out his heart?” She roughly jerks her arm away from him, and walks to Will’s bed, shaken. He’s sitting up, his heavy eyes widening as she comes into his focus.

“Abigail,” he whispers. The doctor smiles, patting her on the shoulder as he leaves the two of them alone. “You’re alive? How are-“ Will hisses in pain-speaking aggravates his wound so Abigail answers his question.

“They said it was surgical,” she says. “That he knew just how to cut me-and you. He wanted us to live.” A faint, sad smile curls Will’s lips.

“He left us to die,” he whispers. She moves to sit at the edge of his bed.

“He always told me he’d take me with him,” she says. “That we were all supposed to go together. That he made a place for us.” She can’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I believed him-even in the darkness of that cellar, I believed him. I-“ she sees the blanket move, and Will holds his hand out to her. She takes it, feeling the weakness of his grip, and wipes away her tears with her other hand.

“Why did I believe him?” she whispers.

“I believed him, too,” Will says.

“But you tried to stop him,” she says. “Did you want to go with him?”

“A part of me did,” Will says. “But the thought of the right thing to do being the wrong thing was a thought too ugly to bear.”

“He talked about you,” she says and, God, this isn’t what she came here for but she can’t stop the words spilling from her mouth. “When he would come to see me down in the cellar. Talked about the things he wanted to do with you.”

“It’s hard to grasp what could have happened,” Will says, gasping. “What could have happened, and in some other worlds _did_ happen.” Abigail scoffs.

“I’m having a hard enough time dealing with this world. I hope some of the other worlds are,” here, she pauses and sardonically smiles. “Easier on me.” She rubs her thumb over Will’s knuckles.

“Everything that can happen, happens,” Will says, his eyes scanning the walls, the medical equipment, the ceiling-landing everywhere but her face. His breathing quickens, and he laughs mirthlessly. “It has to end well, and it has to end badly. It has to end every way it can.”

“How did we end?” she asks, knowing her visiting time is up from the quickening of his heart monitor. He finally looks at her and smiles.

“We didn’t,” he says, and his eyes drift closed. She leans toward him, panic welling up coldly in the pit of her stomach, but she can still hear the erratic beating of his heart monitor. She’s still leaning over him when a nurse she hasn’t ever seen before comes in, and pulls her away from the bed.

“It’s alright, honey,” the nurse says, though her eyes look at Abigail alight with a sick sense of horror. “He’s just fallen back asleep is all.”

* * *

 

The nurse tries to urge Abigail back to her room, but Abigail loses her and wanders to another part of the hospital. At another nurse’s station, she asks a different charge nurse about the woman she was held captive with for the last few months of her imprisonment.

“Oh,” the nurse says, young and new and smiling brightly. “I’m not supposed to know this, but her friends snuck her out for a smoke. Our non-smoking area is across the parking lot, but I think they went to the roof.” Abigail thanks her, asking the nurse not to tell on her either before walking toward the stairwell. She ducks into just as the nurse hunting her rounds the corner, and she jogs up the stairs. She pants heavily, leaning against the wall clutching her neck and stomach when she reaches the top of the stairwell.

“Ok, dumb idea,” she pants. After a few deep, steadying breaths, she pushes the door to the roof open. She hears laughter, and sees Beverly sitting between a laughing Price and Zeller. The laughter stops when they catch sight of her, and Abigail wryly thinks that she’s good at sucking life out of the atmosphere. Zeller’s eyes narrow and he reaches for his pistol. Abigail stops short of Beverly. Her eyes meet his, and she watches his mouth pull back into a snarl. A loud smack resounds through the air of the rooftop, breaking the silence.

“Cut it out, Zeller,” Beverly says.

“But, Bev-“ he protests.

“Kid saved my life,” Beverly says firmly. Then she smiles sardonically. “Though not my left,” she adds, waving the stump of her left arm. Price snorts, and Beverly motions Abigail with her right arm, handing the cigarette to Price.  

“C’mere, kid,” she says and Abigail goes to her. Beverly wraps her in a strong hug. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” she says automatically, and Beverly raises her eyebrows sarcastically. “Well, not fine, but you know what I mean. You?”

“Better now I’m breathing fresh air,” she says, taking her cigarette back from Price. “And, well, polluting said fresh air with my one bad habit.”

“Just the one?” Price says, and Beverly shoots him a good natured ‘shut up!’.

“How’s Will?” Beverly asks, concern weighing down her previously light voice.

“Fi-Better,” Abigail says, catching herself. “The doctor says he’s out of the danger zone, and recovering. How are Mr. Crawford and Ala-Dr. Bloom?”

“Hell, nothing can put down the chief,” Price says. “That man is too stubborn to die.”

“Alana may never walk again,” Zeller says bitterly, and Abigail winces when Beverly hits him with her good arm. “But at least she’s still alive.”  Abigail falls silent and listens as Beverly and Price idly change the conversation to small talk, and ignores the way Zeller glares at her. Too soon, Beverly says,

“Well, I’d better get back to my room before the nurse’s file a missing persons report.” Zeller, Price and Abigail flinch. “Ah, too soon? Sorry.” She stands and Price does as well.

“Zeller, you coming?” Price asks. Zeller takes another drag of his cigarette, eyeing Abigail balefully.

“Yeah, just gotta finish this first,” he says, more toward Abigail than the others, and so she stays to hear what he has to say. When the others have gone, he takes a few more puffs of his cigarette before throwing it angrily to the ground.

“Just so you know,” Zeller starts. “Bev may think you saved her life because you’re a good person, but I haven’t forgotten what you are.”

“Don’t worry,” Abigail answers wearily, squinting at the clouds rolling by. “I haven’t forgotten what I am, either.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

After Zeller leaves, Abigail stays on the roof much longer than she’d intended to. The sunlight burns her eyes, makes her head throb, but she accepts the pain. Welcomes it, even. She hadn’t been lying to Zeller when she said she’d hadn’t forgotten, and sunlight was supposed to cleanse monsters, right?

Eventually, the nurse chasing her finds her on the roof, staring at the sun, and pulls her inside. Abigail follows without a fuss, though the nurse fusses at her, and, once in her hospital room, crawls under the covers of her bed. She can’t sleep, so she keeps her eyes closed and tries not to remember the cellar.

 

* * *

 

Every day, Will improves a bit more and every day, he asks for her.

Every day, Abigail walks down the hall to go sit with him.

“So, what are your plans for after?” Abigail asks him. She’s found it easier to divide her life into two sections: Before, and After. She rarely focuses on the present, and tries to focus on After to keep Before from overwhelming her. But the thought of After overwhelms her too because she has no idea what could possibly come after this-except death.

“Well, I’d like to go home,” Will starts. “To Wolf Trap. Back to my dogs.” She smiles at that; even when she was afraid of Will (Hannibal’s insidious whispering echoes in her head even still), she’d loved to see his dogs.

“What about you, Abigail?” he asks softly, and she winces.

“Haven’t really thought about it,” she says, though she has. She imagines herself somewhere bright and sunny, head throbbing, and alone. The thought of where she would go, what she would do, who she would see, terrifies her.

“Do you have a place to live?” he asks, and she shakes her head almost violently.

“No,” she says, and smiles sadly. “There’s no place for me.”

“There’s a place for you with me,” Will says, and it sounds like he’s surprised himself as much as he has surprised her.

“You’d want that?” she asks, and even more softly adds, “After everything I’ve done?” He laughs the same breathless laugh as before.

“I want a lot of things, Abigail,” he says. “And one of them was finding you alive. Now that we have that, everything else seems simple, doesn’t it?”

“Simple,” she repeats, chuckling. “Nothing has ever been simple for us.” A nurse comes in with a tray of hospital food, and Will pushes himself up with a groan. Abigail’s hands are on his shoulders to help before she can consciously think, and Will freezes. She pulls her hands away.

“Sorry,” she says.

“Give it some thought,” he says and, as the nurse chases Abigail from the room, she can still hear the pleading undertone of his voice pounding against her skull.

 

* * *

 

“Yes, I’m his girlfriend, and I’m very anxious to see him.” A familiar voice echoes down the hall. Abigail tilts her head and her eyes narrow as the nurse’s station comes into view. A mop of fiery red hair nods vigorously at the distrusting stare of the charge nurse, and Abigail tries not to lose herself in the garish plaid of the woman’s overcoat.  

‘ _Horrid woman,’_ Abigail hears Hannibal’s voice in her head and, for once, she is inclined to agree.

“Will and I have been seeing each other for a very long time,” the woman continues and, despite her current feelings, Abigail remains impressed at the quiver in the woman’s voice.

“Wow,” Abigail says as she walks up. “The whole almost bursting into tears thing you have going on _almost_ sounds genuine.”

“Abigail,” Fredricka ‘Freddie’ Lounds breathes, surprise coloring her voice. She composes herself and asks, “How are you feeling?” Abigail can hear the selfish desire for a story in her voice, clear as day, and wonders how she could have ever brought herself to ignore it before.

“This woman is _not_ Will’s girlfriend,” Abigail states. “She’s Freddie Lounds.” The nurse makes a noise of outrage, and Freddie crosses her arms, smirking as though she isn’t fazed by Abigail revealing her.

“And tell me, how do _you_ feel about Will Graham?” she asks, all pretense dropped.

“I feel like he should be left alone to recover,” Abigail shoots back. “He’s a good man, not that you would know.”

“Hmm,” Freddie says as the nurse calls security. She pulls a notepad out, jotting something down and Abigail forces herself to hold Freddie’s gaze every time she looks up at her. Freddie excuses herself before security shows up, and Abigail’s brow stays furrowed about the encounter even after she arrives at Will’s room.

“You okay?” he asks as she takes her place at the foot of his bed. She debates on whether or not to tell him, eventually on deciding to say,

“Freddie Lounds is lurking around the hospital.”

“Ah,” he says, pushing himself up and Abigail smiles at his even breathing. It doesn’t seem to hurt his wound as much anymore when he shifts. “I was wondering when she’d show up.”

“She tried to say she was your girlfriend,” Abigail says, and Will laughs, holding his stomach.

“Well, that certainly takes the cake for the most outrageous story she’s come up with,” he says, smiling.

“You aren’t angry?” Abigail asks.

“Oh, furious,” Will states, still smiling. “But the company I have is too important to sour with a bad mood, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to put on a show for me, Will,” she says. “I’m angry, too.”

“That’s the beauty of hospitals, don’t you think?” he asks. “We’re angry, but we don’t have to be. Time stands still in places like this, and we can save the anger for when we get out.” He looks at her, once, before averting his eyes, and asks,

“Have you given any thought to…?” His voice trails off, as if he can’t bear to voice his question for fear of the answer. This time, it’s her turn to smile.

“I can’t promise I won’t be difficult to live with,” she says. “But if you still have a place for me, I’ll happily take it.” He doesn’t look at her, but he smiles and nods.

“I’ll always have a place for you,” he says. They sit in companionable silence after that, Will drifting in and out of consciousness, and Abigail staring at the sunbeams that shine through the blinds of the window. She remembers one of the many one-sided conversations she’d had with Hannibal after he’d captured her.

“ _He still dreams of you,”_ he’d said. “ _I doubt very much you’ve ever had anyone who loves you as much as Will Graham in your life.”_ Here, he’d smile. “ _And you threw that love away.”_ She looks at Will, sleeping soundly, and listens to the even tell of his breathing to block out the beeping of his heart monitor. His hands lay on top of the blanket, and she covers one of them with her own. Even in his sleep, he reaches out and closes his hand around hers.

Abigail had a lot to make up for, and hopefully she had a whole lifetime to do so.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Abigail idly scrolls through websites on the tablet she’s using. Beverly had come in earlier to visit and, at Abigail’s longing look, lent her a tablet. Beverly claimed that forsaking the internet would motivate her to start some cheesy mystery novel Price had given her. (Beverly told Abigail that she and Price would often read the same book at the same time, and make bets on who could solve the mystery the quickest. The girl feels a soft pain of jealousy, remembering when she and Marissa would try to guess the killer in cheesy B-horror films.)

Before she can consciously register what she is doing, she’s reading an article about Hannibal. She gulps, reading the colorless descriptions of what had happened at Hannibal’s house. They don’t capture the crashing of the glass window she had pushed Alana through, or the hope that lit up Will’s eyes that first time he had whispered her name, or the smell of his blood when Hannibal tried to gut him. She checks the history, seeing that the website was already visited ( _looks like what happened haunts Beverly too_ ) and the suggested articles catch her eye. One of them links to _Tattle Crime,_ and Abigail feels a sickening sense of regret well up in her stomach when she sees the homepage. 

“Crazy Guts Cop”, the headline reads, and the picture accompanying it makes Abigail’s face crumple in distressed sympathy. Will is obviously unconscious-he’s had to sleep a great deal because of the pain medicine the doctor prescribed for his injury. Lounds had pulled the sheet back, and Will’s bandages were gone-the nurses often changed them, and Abigail knows that Lounds must have bribed one of them to leave for a few minutes so she could get the shot.  The wound shines red hot against the pallor of Will’s skin. It snakes from his left hip, all the way to the bottom of his right ribs, and it looks horrifyingly real even on the artificial screen of the tablet. A colonoscopy bag hangs just out of frame, thoughtfully cut completely except for the very part a person needs to tell exactly what it is. Lounds had run the photo retouched with a black square covering Will’s groin, and Abigail feels her cheeks flush hotly with embarrassed anger.

Closer to the bottom of Tattle Crime’s homepage, there’s a picture of a young girl with her father running alongside a picture of the girl next to Will, a blue scarf tied tightly around her neck. In the picture with her father, the girl’s smile is frozen in time, and Abigail doesn’t recognize herself. That life feels like the life of someone else, one falsely cheerful snapshot of a life that didn’t belong to her.

Hannibal was supposed to be in the second picture as well as Will; whenever she left Port Haven during the day, she left with both men but Lounds must have cropped him out of the picture for some reason. Abigail doesn’t have to read long to find out. She clicks on the picture and it leads her to another article with the headline “Loving the Shrike’s Daughter?”

_‘Abigail Hobbs seems strangely protective of Graham during his stay at Baltimore General.’_

“Of course I was protective,” Abigail whispers, horrified. “And look at what you’ve done, you horrid _bitch_.” She knows she should stop reading, but she can’t bring herself to pull away. _That’s just what Lounds wants from her readers, the soul-sucking harpy,_ she thinks spitefully.

‘ _Did Graham find love on Lecter’s blood stained kitchen floor?_ ’ she reads on. ‘ _Graham has always had a strange fascination with the Hobbs girl. Do these feelings stem from a healthy sense of parental obligation, or has this fire been smoldering for longer than we’ve thought? My guess would be this is another unhealthy obsession, and that Graham should watch out; this fire could kill_.’

This is how Jack Crawford finds her: trembling and on the verge of tears.

Swallowing, Abigail says shakily,

“Have you read Freddie Lounds’ newest article?”

“Ah,” Crawford says. “Is that why you look so upset?”

“Don’t you make a quip about my guilt,” Abigail says before Crawford can speak again. “I wasn’t an accomplice to Hannibal.”

“Well, you’ve certainly gotten right down to the reason for my visit,” he almost harrumphs, and Abigail oddly thinks of a cartoonish old Scrooge.

“Some experiences teach more than others,” she says darkly. Crawford nods, motioning to the chair by her bed and asking, “May I?” before sitting down anyway.

“What you learned from your experiences with Hannibal Lecter is what I am interested in,” he says.

“Price was right,” she says lightly. “Nothing can keep you down. You’re like some bionic, indestructible super agent.” He draws back slightly, an incredulously startled look flitting over his face and, to keep from laughing, Abigail has to focus on how the white of the bandage peaking over Crawford’s collar clashes garishly with the dark colors of his suit.

“Ask what you want,” she says, turning the tablet off and setting it aside. “You’re going to anyway.”

“How did Hannibal catch you?” he asks, opening a small black leather notebook.

“In Minnesota,” she answers. “In my parents’ old house.”

“How long were you held captive?” _Define captive,_ Abigail bit back. Hannibal had held her captive for far longer than their meeting in Minnesota.

 “It was December when Will took me to Minnesota,” she says. “And now it’s October. So ten months?”

“Where did he hold you captive?”

“His cellar,” she says quietly, eyeing the closed blinds and dark curtains she had requested.

“For how long?” Abigail looks at him, sees the gears turning in his head, and answers,

“Most of the time I was with him. I don’t remember exactly.” Crawford ‘hmms’, writing it down in his notepad.

“When would he take you out of the cellar?”

“At night, mostly,” she says. Her father’s lifeless eyes stare at her in the seat next to Crawford, formaldehyde leaking down to soak his cheap funeral suit. She banishes him away, only to see dark eyes looking at her pleading through a mop of messy black hair flash across her vision. “Never further than his office.”

“For what reason?” Crawford can’t quite keep the insistent demand out of his voice. _If only you knew,_ she thought.

“To talk,” she answers simply.

“You were never a witness to any of Lecter’s crimes?”

“You mean besides kidnapping and wrongful imprisonment?” she scoffs. “No, I never saw him murder anyone, and I didn’t help him with it, either.”

“Why would he keep you?” Crawford asks, almost to himself, and the ‘ _if he wasn’t using your help’_ hangs heavily implied in the air between them.

“To torture Will,” she says softly. ‘ _He still dreams of you,’_ Hannibal whispers in her mind. “He said he planned on framing Will for my murder.”

“But Lecter has no problem with killing,” Crawford says again, and at least he is polite enough to temper the suspicion in his voice with a questioning tone. “Why keep you?” Abigail looks down at her hands, still seeing Hannibal’s larger ones covering them.

“Because he said we were family,” she whispers. She lies down, turning on her side to face away from Crawford. “I’m tired now. Please come back later.” She hears an answering inhale of breath, as if Crawford is going to protest. The shrill shrieking from his seat echoes throughout the room as he pushes it back to stand.

“Thank you, Ms.Hobbs,” he says, and she winces. “You’ve been a great help. I’ll be back later, after you’ve _rested._ ” She doesn’t answer as she listens to his footsteps as he walks out of the room.

 

* * *

 

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Abigail goes to see Will every day. So, every day, she looks guiltily at the nurses’ station she passes and tries not to think of Alana Bloom. She ignores the memories of one amazed and disbelieving gasp, which turns into a strangled and betrayed scream. She ignores the sound of a body hitting the pavement, and the heat of her own horrified tears as she stares shakenly at the evidence of her crime.

Of course, the first thing to tumble out of Will’s mouth that visit is

“Alana’s been moved for physical therapy.” He smiles softly at her, one of those optimistically hopefully but realistically pitying smiles people give those in impossible situations. She can’t quite hide the wince, and Will’s brow furrows when he sees it.

“I try not to think of her,” Abigail admits quietly.

“She isn’t angry with you,” Will says, voice the same as his smile, and Abigail doesn’t bring up the way Alana’s eyes had smoldered, seeing Abigail being loaded into the ambulance. Abigail hadn’t witnessed it personally, but noticed the artful way a cameraman at the scene zoomed in on Alana’s face during the initial report. Watching that story carefully make its way through the local news station, and several national ones, often made Abigail doubt her own perception of that night as it was clouded by differing interpretations made from people who were not there and couldn’t possibly know. Did Alana forgive her? Or was the smoldering in her eyes hatred for the girl who ruined her life?

Abigail knows which emotion she’d feel in Alana’s place, and it isn’t forgiveness.

So instead she smiles, and answers “Alana’s a good person” and Will answers back, smile more subdued,

“Yes, she is.”

Abigail cunningly directs conversation to Will’s dogs, and listens to him tell her about them for the fifth or so time, pushing the thought of Alana Bloom, and what she’s done to her, from her mind.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going to be leaving this hospital under a cloud of suspicion,” Abigail says nervously, clutching an overnight back to her chest. She’s staring out the window, at the army of reporters that have lined up along the sidewalks like ants, and only turns her head at Will’s answering chuckle. She looks at him, dressed in jeans and a brown fishing jacket, and he looks more normal than she’d remembered. The only thing present to break the effect is the cane he clutches white-knuckled in his hand.

“Not a cloud,” he says. “A fog.”

“In a fog, people see only what they want to see,” she says.

“Or what they think is already there,” he says, and Abigail startles at how much closer to her he has moved. He lays a jacket over her shoulders, hands shyly placing and then jerking away, and Abigail closes her palms around dry denim.

“Beverly brought it for you,” he says quietly. Abigail doesn’t smile, though she wants to, and puts the jacket on. It smells of dog, and moist earth.

“She brought you most of your stuff, too, right?” Abigail says. “Did this jacket come from Beverly or you?” Will doesn’t answer, and Jack Crawford enters the hospital room like a dark storm cloud.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re going out the back.”                    

Once the three of them exit the back of the hospital to greet a large, moving crowd, Abigail wonders idly how anyone could keep secrets in this century. She also wonders if it’s the same hospital employee leaking these last-minute changes that Lounds’ paid for the picture of Will.

Almost as if the thought of her was like summoning a demon from legend, Lounds’ pushes herself to the front of the line, and directs a question to Will that Abigail can’t hear past the roar in her ears.

“Lounds,” Abigail says fiercely. “You write lying shit, and _Tattle Crime_ is an asswipe. Keep away from Will.” Lounds smiles, a knowingly smug tilt to her lips, and she asks in her most polite and questioning voice, one learned from a lifetime of speaking leading questions,

“So, what is it you feel for Will Graham?”

Abigail grabs Lounds’ camera, and slams it into her face. She savors the cracking of the glass of the lens, and the hot spatter of blood that covers her knuckles. Crawford grabs her arm, roughly pulling her away, and the camera falls to the ground. Abigail manages a couple of vicious stomps, breaking the camera further underneath her feet.

“You,” Crawford says, pulling her firmly. She feels Crawford’s strong grip replaced by Will’s weakened one. Crawford points to her, saying, “Don’t give her more fodder.” He turns to Lounds, and Abigail tries to push down the sick feeling of satisfaction that wells up in her head when she sees Lounds clutching her nose, blood flowing over her fingers to stain the broken concrete.

“ _Blood is the essence of life,”_ Hannibal echoes in the blood pounding in her ears. “ _It can be very beautiful, if you’ve the stomach for it_.” 

“You,” Crawford says again, and Abigail doesn’t have to imagine the harsher venom that colors his voice when he directs it toward Lounds. He grabs Lounds by the arm, dragging her away, and Abigail hears him warn her in a deathly low voice,

“I _will_ have you brought up on libel charges and, so help me God, you _will_ leave Will Graham off of that blog of yours…”

“Abigail,” she hears Will say softly beside her. He gently tugs her arm, and she follows, her eyes meeting Lounds’ startled gaze. “Come on, honey.”

Abigail allows Will to pull her into the car, and she follows him to settle into the seat next to him. Once the door closes, Will smiles.

“’ _Tattle Crime_ is an asswipe’?” he repeats, amusement creeping into his voice.

“I was never allowed to curse with my parents,” Abigail explains. “And Hannibal finds it distasteful.” Abigail sees the furrow of Will’s brow at the mention of Hannibal, and adds,

“So I have a lot of practice to get caught up on to make up for lost time. I should have my PhD in swearing by now.” A breathless chuckle rewards her, and Will asks quietly,

“So, what did Freddie Lounds have to say about me this time? Anything more interesting than my alleged insanity?”

“Nothing so interesting,” Abigail says lightly. “Freddie Lounds has a terrible sense of creativity. She’s a one-trick pony.” Will smiles at that and Abigail finds it in her to smile back. Her smile falls when Will ruffles her hair, and presses a soft kiss to the side of her head. She feels his stubble brush roughly against her cheek. She panickedly looks out the window to make sure Lounds’ isn’t peeking inside, and lets out a relieved sigh when she sees the woman still being lectured by Crawford. She sees Will’s questioning glance reflected in the window, his face fallen as if he has done something wrong reflected in the bright sunlight, and she gives his reflection a shaky smile in an effort for reassurance.

They don’t speak after they leave the hospital. When Will falls asleep, softly snoring against the closed window, she covers his hand with her jacket, and holds his hand tightly in hers underneath the cloth. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

World of Many Worlds  
Chapter four 

Abigail wakes to the sound of the car stopping. The scenery has changed; instead of the cityscape of Boston, she sees green outside of the window. It’s night time outside; the stars twinkle overhead, the same stars she’d look up at back in Minnesota. The same stars she’d missed when locked in Hannibal’s cellar. Wolf Trap should look more familiar than it does. 

“Abigail,” Will says. She turns to look at him and he smiles softly. “We’re home.” 

Home? No. Home was a house in Minnesota, ‘CANNIBALS’ scrawled angrily on the outside. Home was where she’d live in fear of her father, and where she’d help lure her doppelgangers to their deaths.

But for Will, she could try to be at home here. 

She helps him out of the car and, once satisfied he’s steady with his cane, she goes to the trunk to gather her meager belongings. She shoulders the bag and follows Will to the front door. Her heart clenches in her throat when she sees Beverly, Price and Zeller waiting for them on the porch. Bev opens the door and a flood of dogs run out to greet Will. He laughs, crouching down slowly to pet them all. Zeller’s eyes, aflame with hatred and suspicion, rest on her and they burn. 

She wants to hide; hide from Beverly, Price and Zeller, hide from Will, from everything. A small dog, one that she barely hears Will call Buster, yips at her feet. She robotically reaches down and scoops the dog up, hugging it to her chest. The moon shines unforgivingly overhead, and her head pounds. The group makes their way down to the two of them and she says softly, 

“Will? Can I go inside?” His smile fades, and she hates that she’s the reason his brow furrows. 

“Sure. You okay, sweetheart?” She nods, unable to speak, and she helpless says, 

“It’s too much.” She gestures vaguely, hoping he understands. He nods back and says, 

“You’re welcome in the house; you live here now.” 

“She what?” Zeller says and Abigail pushes past him, still clutching Buster to her chest like a security blanket. Once she screen door shuts, she inhales deeply. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

She’s shaking; she has to put Buster down and he whines at her feet. She sits on the floor of the living room, unsure of where to go in the house. She watches her hands tremble and she fists them in her borrowed jacket. It smells of the house and she pulls it tightly around herself. Buster noses her elbow. 

Zeller’s yelling echoes throughout the room like a sonic boom. 

“She tried to kill Alana and you’re just going to let her live here?” 

“She also saved me,” Bev’s voice joins his echoes. Abigail remembers begging Hannibal to let her live. She knew what he’d had planned; he was going to slice her and place her in glass, like something out of a medical textbook. He’d told her his plans with perfectly poised glee. 

She still isn’t sure how or why her begging had changed his mind, only that it did. He decided to take her arm and leave her in the cellar with Abigail. 

“Abigail needs stability,” Will says. Zeller scoffs, gesturing to the house. 

“She’s a fucking murderer, Will! She helped her dad and she killed Nick Boyle and, goddamn it, I’m not going to stand by and watch her kill you!” 

“ENOUGH!” Will’s yell startles her. She’s never heard him raise his voice. “I’m not going to stand here and let you rage against a girl who has done her damndest to survive.” Abigail risks a peak through the screen door; Will’s face scares her. A look she’s never seen on him before is slashed across his face and, though she knows it pains him, he’s standing straight. The scene devolves into yelling and Abigail’s brain shuts down; she can’t bear to process anymore of this. But one thing cuts through the panicked fog of her mind. 

“Abigail is staying here, for as long as she wants,” he says. Abigail wants to cry; he’s defending her but she’s undefendable. She deserves everything Zeller has to say and more because he’s right. 

_I know what you are._

She’s a monster. 

Tears stream down her face and she gives up on controlling her breathing. She buries her face in the sleeves of the jacket and sobs quietly. She shouldn’t have taken Will up on his offer: Zeller was right. She’d end up getting him killed. Hannibal is still out there somewhere and she couldn’t forget his plans. 

Warm brown eyes and curly black hair invade her mind. He didn’t look like Will but he was a convincing substitute. 

_What is this?_

_For you, Abigail._ Hannibal had said. _I couldn’t get dear Will here but this man will serve as a convincing substitute, don’t you think?_

“No,” she whispers against the denim. “No.” 

“Abigail?” She doesn’t respond, but she looks up. Will leans against his cane in the doorway. She can hear the sound of a car door slamming. “Oh, Abby, honey.” 

“He’s right, Will,” she says, her voice breaking. “He’s right.” Will walks up to her and, carefully, sits on the floor in front of her. Her cheek presses against his chest; his hands rub up and down her back. 

“Sweetheart,” Will murmurs into her hair. “Sometimes we become what we hate to survive. Hannibal has a transformative effect; he’s good at seeing that we become what he wants us to be.” 

“It’s not just Hannibal,” she says. “My dad-“ 

“Would have killed you. You’re a survivor, Abigail. I don’t blame you for that. You shouldn’t either, okay?” Abigail fears the day she has to choose between her survival and Will; Hannibal often promised her that day would come, if Will refused to play the part Hannibal had lovingly written for him. 

She’s not sure she would choose Will, and she hates herself for that even as she wants to sink into his kindness. 

“There’s something wrong with me, Will,” she whispers. “First my dad, then Hannibal. Do I attract monsters because I am one?” 

“You’re not a monster, Abigail,” his hands feel cool against the wet heat of her cheeks. “If you’re a monster, then I am something much, much worse.” Tears spill over his fingers and her voice remains trapped in her throat. 

“Can I show you something?” he says, once her crying has calmed from a furious storm to a soft rain. She nods, her body suddenly heavy. She stands, and helps Will stand. He leads her through the house, turning on the lights as he goes. They go through the kitchen, to the backdoor. Once they’re outside, he offers her his hand and she numbly takes it. They walk through the field for what seems like hours, moving further away from the house. The scent of the river hangs heavy in the air, teeming with algae and the scent of fish. 

_I don’t fish, I hunt._

“Sometimes, at night,” he says, his voice hanging with the air of confession. “I’ll leave the lights on and walk across these flat fields. I like to imagine the house is a ship in the distance, and all around me is the vast Delta night.” She looks at the house; it does kind of look like a ship. 

“When I come out here, with the scent of the river on the air and the stars above me, I feel safe,” he says. “I wanted to share that safety with you.” She nods, tracing the outline of the house with her hand. 

“It’s the north star,” she says quietly. “It’s home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to get back into the swing of this story; blah blah, mad writer's block.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five 

While Abigail works hard to make Wolf Trap her home, Will works even harder to make sure she sees it that way. That’s why she’s currently wearing his clothes as she washes the only three outfits she owns. He’d offered them to her with a stutter, not making eye contact, and she’d accepted them. He’d bloomed then, smiling and promising her a shopping trip to pick out new belongings. 

She doesn’t want to spend his money, but she has nothing of her own. Alana had diagnosed her as manipulative. Was she manipulating Will? She must be, she thinks, for him to be so eager to please her. She occupies herself by making a list of items to get as her clothes wash. She’d been the way she’d been for so long she wasn’t sure she knew how not to be manipulative. 

Once her clothes dry, she takes off her borrowed ones with a surprising reluctance. Will’s clothes are broken in and feel homey. Though they’d smelled like him, it didn’t make her uncomfortable. She folds them up, dressing in her own clothes, and walks up the stairs to take them to him. She stops by his room, raising her fist to knock when his door swings open slightly. 

He’s in there, panting a little as he struggles to take off his shirt. Abigail freezes in place; should she help him? She’s an intruder-in his home, in his head- and she can’t bring herself to move. The broad expanse of his back and shoulders is bared to her, and she sees a surprising number of scars. One looks like a knife wound in  
the back of his shoulder and, around his hip bone, she sees the tip of an angry red wound. 

It’s from when Hannibal tried to gut him. 

Her mouth goes dry as she hears him swear deeply, fumbling with his belt buckle. He’s shaking, and he pushes his pants over his hips. Its only when he lets out a soft moan that she snaps back to herself, and she moves away from the door. She briskly walks down the hall to her own room, quietly opening the door and going inside. 

She shakes her head, running a hand through her hair, and focuses on creating her list. 

_-one winter coat_

He wasn’t in pain, was he? He’d been moving better, needing her help less and less, but Hannibal had still tried to kill him. Or did he? He knew where to cut Abigail; maybe he knew where to cut Will, too. 

_-scarves and hats_

She hates herself a little for the flush that creeps up her neck; that moan had to have been a moan of pain but it shot straight to her sex. Was she one of those people who got off on pain? The thought of Will suffering makes her feel sick to her stomach, but the sound he’d made had brought out something deep and primal within her. 

_-Ask Will about vegetarian diet_

She focuses on that instead; she’d walked in on him gutting a fish he’d caught and almost been sick. She’d locked herself in her room, trying to reassure him she was alright when he’d sat outside her door, panicked, like one of his dogs. She couldn’t stand the thought of eating any kind of meat. She’d thought he’d have gone to the grocery right then, at 11 o’clock at night, if she’d asked him to bring her brussels sprouts or something. 

“Abigail,” a voice calls from outside. She startles, nearly dropping her pen. 

“Yes?” she asks, voice shaking. 

“Are you ready to go?” He sounds so anxious, so eager to please her. “Wolf Trap isn’t very big, but there are a couple of boutiques we can check out.” 

“Yeah,” she says, leaving Will’s clothing on her bed, forgotten. She opens the door and asks, 

“Do you have a scarf and a hat?” She weakly gestures to her neck and ear. His eyes soften, if that was even possible, and he nods. She follows him back to his room, refusing to think of earlier (though her eyes stray to the crumpled pile of clothes next to his bed. He hands her a grey scarf and beanie, and she forces a smile. 

The smile he gives her in return lights up the room and she feels a little better. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As promised, they go to one of Wolf Trap’s two boutiques. She’d made faces when she’d look at the prices of things, but Will reassured her that they could get what she needed. 

“And maybe even a little of what you want,” he’d said. 

So far, she’d had the necessities-bras, underwear, socks. Will had blushed prettily when she’d browsed the lingerie section, averting his eyes and paying undue attention to an abstract painting on the wall. She’d had to force herself to refrain from wondering about his favorite color. 

She’s shopping for clothes now, and she’s unsure of what to buy. When she’d been Alana’s patient, she’d been dressed in shades of blue that Alana had picked out for her. When she’d first forsaken Will for Hannibal, she dressed in tans and browns. None of those colors were who she was any more. Blue hurt too much-it reminded her of Alana’s kindness. And, though Hannibal was a monster, she found that she missed him. She missed his fatherly presence, and often wondered if she’d be better off in the place he had made for her. 

She comes across a coat, a bright crimson affair, with long sleeves and a stylish trim. She holds a sleeve against her pale palm, and shudders when it reminds her of a deep gash. She picks it up, trying it on and goes to look in the boutique’s mirror. 

She’s clad in crimson blood, and she feels like she’s grounded. This coat reveals something true about her; her pale skin contrasts and she looks almost like a vampire. Like a monster. 

She puts it in the basket and continues shopping. 

The one thing she picks that reminds her of her old life is a sundress, something that would have looked better on Marissa than it would on her. It’s a flowing white dress, with yellow sunflowers, that hangs above her knees and bares her shoulders. She eyes herself critically in the dressing room, swirling the skirt about. She’d need to pick a scarf and hat to match; Will’s gray scarf, hanging heavily between her breasts, almost overshadowed the dress. This dress, unlike the coat, is something she can hide in. She can pretend to be pretty and young and undamaged. 

She finds Will and, with a furrowed brow, he asks her if she’d found everything she’d wanted. 

“I’ve got a decent start,” she assures him. “If I need anything else, we can get it later.” He nods and they check out, exiting the store. Wolf Trap had a vibrant and lively downtown, despite being so small. She could smell food cooking, and the smell of meat makes her want to retch. 

“Will?” she asks. He perks up, coming to attention, and she says, “I’d like to become a vegetarian. Is that all right?” 

“Of course,” he says softly. “We can stop by the general store and pick out any ingredients you’d like.” She nods. 

“Will you help me pick out some recipes when we get h-back to the house?” she asks. He notices she couldn’t bring herself to say ‘home’, but he doesn’t comment on it. He nods, still smiling. 

“I’d like that very much.” 

They continue walking, close to each other, their hands bumping every so often. She focuses on her surroundings; there are many mom and pop shops, with a couple of chain stores. She stops in front of one shop when she sees an easel, painted with a nature scene, in a window. There’s a deer looking out back at her, and the eyes look almost sentient. She feels everything come flooding back at once; her father and his credo, Will and his kindness, Hannibal and his twisted fatherly affection. It’s bubbling up all inside her, and she knows how she can get it out. 

“Will?” she says. “Can I buy some paints?” 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She sets up her easel far away from the house, watching as the lights remain steady. She has a couple of hours of daylight left, and she starts with a rough sketch. 

She’d always liked art; her favorites were nature scenes, or scenes from fairytales. She particularly liked flowers. But as she grew older, her art became too revealing, and so her father had destroyed all of her supplies and projects, forbidding her from practicing lest she let slip the secret he’d been forcing her to hide. 

At the time, she’d told herself her father did it out of love, even if it felt like cutting off a limb. Now, she knew her father loved her too much, and that love destroyed everything. 

It felt right to run the paintbrush over the canvas; it felt like coming home when she stroked the colors around the house, painting it as if a rainbow of light shone out from it. It was bright and happy, and it made her feel at peace. 

The darker stuff could come later; for now, she revelled in a simple painting of her north star, shining brightly. 

She takes it inside, the paint still drying, and shows it to Will with a hint of pride. His eyes crinkle as he smiles. 

“It’s pretty,” he says softly. “Where would you like to hang it?” 

“Oh! Um….” She looks around, a little helplessly. She laughs nervously. “I’m not sure?” He nods, putting up the last of the canned goods. 

“We can decide later,” he says. “But I’d like it to be somewhere I can look at it from time to time.” 

“Sure,” she says softly, a little touched. She pulls her phone from her pocket, one that Will insisted she’d get, and checks the time. She only has one contact-Will- and she hopes it stays that way for a while. 

She’d rather not be around other people. 

“Want to help me find recipes on Pintrest?” she asks. “I want to make us dinner tonight.” 

They sit on the couch, side by side, as Abigail scrolls through recipes and saves the ones they agree on. The dogs are sprawled around their feet-except Buster, who forces his way into Abigail’s lap. It’s not until a while in that Abigail notices how close they’re sitting. Their shoulders touch and, once she’d gotten a crick in her neck, she’d rested her cheek against Will’s shoulder. He breathes deep and evenly, and she listens to the rumble of his voice as he points out the recipes he’d like to try. 

“I should eat more vegetables, anyway,” he says. “Being a vegetarian will be good for us, I think.” She likes that he says ‘us’, that he’s willing to do this with her. That he thinks of them as a unity, instead of individual units. While watching his profile, his stubble scratching the top of her head, she thinks that she’s been part of many unities in her life. Her and her father. Her and Marissa. Her and Alana. Her and Hannibal. All of them ended in tragedy and all of them asked something of her; to kill, to raise self-esteem, to change. 

Will doesn’t really ask anything of her; he only asks that she be around him. He’s perfectly content to let her be, manipulative tendencies and panic attacks and all. 

She finds that she likes being around him. She doesn’t regret not doing it sooner; she knows if she’d had a relationship with Will sooner, Hannibal would have been able to sink his claws into him. Hannibal wanted to mold Will and Abigail into perfect predators. 

_We’ll be a family, Abigail,_ he’d said. _We just need to get dear Will to see us._

“Abigail? Sweetheart?” Will’s voice cuts through her thoughts. She looks up at him to see his brow furrowed with concern. His hand hangs by her cheek, not touching, as if afraid he’d break her. 

“Where’d you go?” She shakes her head and smiles. 

“I was thinking mushroom ziti for dinner sounds good. What do you think?” 

He agrees with her, as she knew he would.


	6. Chapter 6

Abigail wants to go to college. It’s something she’s always wanted but no one would accept her. Seven schools and she got turned away because of her last name. 

Even in death, her father keeps a tight grip on her, ensuring that she can’t escape.

She’d followed Will to campus; he’d had to make arrangements to extend his leave. She’s wearing the red coat she’d picked out; the chill of Winter was in the air. She fiddles with the sleeve, watching the hopeful students scurry between classes. 

“Will!” A familiar voice calls. Will perks up, like one of his dogs. 

“Alana,” he calls warmly. _Don’t look don’t look don’t-_

She looks. 

Alana Bloom sits in a wheel chair, clad in a blue coat, and a darkness behind her eyes that wasn’t there before. She settles that darkness on Abigail. In a panic, Abigail pushes past Will to go look at the manicured garden. 

She can’t face Alana. She’s every bit the coward Hannibal said she was. 

She doesn’t catch much of the conversation, but she hears the words ‘dangerous’ and ‘stray’ intermittently. A dangerous stray. She is that. One likely to bite the hand that feeds her if it meant her own survival. 

She doesn’t want to bite Will’s hand but be under it forever. 

She shakes her head, analyzing the foliage. The colors would look pretty in a painting, she thinks, though she feels far from painting something pretty. 

“Hi,” a voice says. She turns to see an unfamiliar man-a boy, really- standing next to her. He has a canvas messenger bad slung over his shoulder. “The trees are pretty, aren’t they?” 

“Yeah,” she says warily. Why is he talking to her? What does he want? 

“Do you go to school here?” 

“No,” she says harshly. At his wince, she softens her tone. “I’m with a friend.” She turns to look at Will, only to find him already looking at her. His gaze strips her bare, igniting something primal and feral within her. 

A desire to feel powerful. A desire to fuck. Both familiar and frightening. 

She eyes the boy next to her and smiles, all teeth.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________  
Will’s having a nightmare again; she can hear the whimpering and feel the fear that floats up to her from the living room. Half asleep, she makes her way to his bedroom for towels and a clean shirt. She’s done this before, and she knows she’ll have to do it again. She doesn’t mind: the nightmares bother her, too.  
Once she’s downstairs, she carefully steps over the whining dogs to the bed Will is sprawled out upon. His face contorts in agony, pouring sweat, and she runs a hand over his forehead, making soothing noises. 

“Will? Will, wake up,” she says. His eyes snap open with a gasp and, panting, he looks at her. She wordlessly hands him the towels and a shirt and he weakly smiles. 

“I’m sorry I keep waking you,” he says, sitting up. He runs the towel over his hair, and she politely averts her gaze as he changes shirts. “This is a bad habit we’re falling into-you need your rest.” 

“It’s alright, Will.” She gets up, and puts a kettle on to boil. She makes hot ginger tea and, while it boils, she finds the whiskey in the cabinet. She pours two fingers in, secretly delighted that she can measure alcohol, and pours the tea into it. 

“Here,” she says, handing him the drink once its finished. He takes a hearty swigs and hums. 

“You shouldn’t be learning how to mix drinks while you’re here,” he says. 

“Hush,” she replies. She helps him lay the towels on the bed, and supports his arms as he lies back down. Usually, this is the part where she’d go back to her own room. 

Instead, she lies down next to him. 

“Abigail?” he breathes. She wraps her arms around him, holding him to her. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t -“

“Shhh,” she says. “It’s okay, Will.” 

“This isn’t appropriate,” he mutters, nuzzling into her neck. 

“No one has to know,” she mumbles sleepily. “If this were another world, I wouldn’t be able to help.” He’s silent for a moment, and she can feel him fiddling with the edge of the blanket. 

“Do you think about that often?” he asks her in the darkness. “Other worlds?” 

“There are so many possibilities laid out before us,” she says, half asleep. “Worlds where I died on my kitchen floor. Worlds where Hannibal still has me, or let me die in his cellar. I dream of them; I was dreaming of them tonight.” 

“I was too,” Will says, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear him. “If Everett’s Many Worlds theory holds true, there are whole universes where either you or I are dead. It frightens me that this might become one of them.” 

“Universes where Hannibal is dead, too,” she says, looking up at the ceiling. Here, her voice cracks. “I’m afraid of those universes because I don’t know who I’d be without him.” 

“Abigail,” Will pushes himself up slowly, with a low grunt that shoots straight to Abigail’s core. “He doesn’t have to define you.” 

“He doesn’t have to define you, either,” she whispers. “Yet, he does.” His eyes capture hers in the dark, looking impossibly black in the low light. 

“Let’s make a promise,” he whispers lowly, as if others could hear. “Regardless of the world we find ourselves in, we define ourselves. Hannibal isn’t the author of our lives.” 

“Don’t you ever want to be in the place he made for you?” Asking sounds almost like heresy. Will’s brow furrows, and she can tell the question upsets him. He counters with one of his own. 

“Would you really go back to him, after everything he’s done?” 

“I don’t feel like I belong anywhere else,” she says, and oh, she can see the pain she causes him with that statement. He’s worked so hard to make her feel at home, to make her feel as if she belonged here. But she doesn’t. Will is too bright to be surrounded by her darkness. Some days, she feels unreal, like she should have never left Hannibal’s cellar. Will doesn’t always help ground her; sometimes his affection for her sends her flying into the stratosphere. 

“Abigail, you belong here,” he says softly. “I’ve made a place for you, too, if you’ll have it.” She looks at him, so earnest in the dark. They’re so close together, touching-legs intertwined, arms around waists and shoulders. She doesn’t think he’s even aware of the hand that’s idly rubbing at the skin of her midriff. 

“Can I stay tonight?” tumbles out of her mouth before she can snatch the words back. He looks nervous, idly tracing the hem of her nightshirt. 

“Yes,” he says after an eternity. “You can stay here, and wherever else you’d like.” They settle into an uneasy silence, lying next to each other. She counts his breaths, in and out, marveling at the fact that either one of them is alive, in this world. 

She falls asleep to the sound of his breathing and, as she’s dozing off, she feels a hand brushing away hair from her cheek. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

They make a habit of sharing a bed, despite Will’s protests. Some nights, it’s too much for him to be alone and others, it’s too much for her. He always protested when she’d lie beside him, but the protests grew weaker, feeble and without teeth. He would sigh as she nuzzled into his chest, and his hand would absently stroke the skin of her arm. 

It helps her to be around Will; only he understands the nature of her dreams. She tells him that sometimes, she wanders in a forest, hearing her father calling her. She wades through rivers of blood and the trees will close, looking like the ceiling of Hannibal’s cellar. She tells him that sometimes the sun shines so brightly it burns her up and she welcomes her own demise. 

In return, he tells her that sometimes he dreams she isn’t real, that he’s afraid the only place he was able to make for her is inside of his head. She usually touches him then, a tactile reminder of her existence. He shudders, exhaling shakily, and she longs to talk of other dreams, good ones. Ones where Marissa never died and  
Abigail isn’t covered in scars, missing pieces. Ones where she wakes up to her mother cooking breakfast and her father nowhere in sight. Ones with Will, holding and touching, static flesh made ephemeral by a lack of knowledge. 

One night, she asks him about other dreams. 

“Do you ever not have nightmares?” she asks. The hand stroking the skin of her arm stills. The air between them changes, becomes charged with something she can’t name. 

“Do you ever have dreams?” He’s quiet for a moment and then, so softly it’s as if he doesn’t speak at all, he says, 

“Yes. I have dreams.” 

“What do you dream about?” 

She really shouldn’t take advantage of his inability to say no to her. 

“Abigail-“

“Sometimes I dream of you,’ she says. It’s the truth. She’d never say what kind of dreams, but she dreams of him. When she wakes up from these dreams, she feels better. Like the world is a little brighter. 

“Abigail, this isn’t appropriate-“ 

“Screw appropriate,” she says. “Nothing about any of this is appropriate. Maybe, if you tell me about your dreams, you’ll summon them instead of nightmares.”

“You know I dream of you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“I know you have nightmares about me,” she says. “That’s not the same.” He gently pushes her back-when had she gotten so close to him?-and he lies back down. 

“Goodnight, Abigail,” he says, rolling over, and closed off to her.


End file.
